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We are all of us, in this world, more or less like St. January, whom the inhabitants of Naples worship one day, and pelt with baked apples the next.

Sophie Swetchine

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Sophie Swetchine
Age: 74 †
Born: 1782
Born: November 22
Died: 1857
Died: September 10
Diarist
Lady-In-Waiting
Salonnière
Writer
Moscow
Russian SFSR
Sofia Petrovna Soymonova
Madame Swetchine
Swetchine
Anne Sophie Swetchine
Like
Naples
World
Baked
Inhabitants
January
Apples
Worship
Less
Next
Pelt

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There are words which are worth as much as the best actions, for they contain the germ of them all.
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Old age is the night of life, as night is the old age of the day. Still, night is full of magnificence and, for many, it is more brilliant than the day.
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If grief is to be mitigated, it must either wear itself out or be shared.
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A malicious enemy is better than a clumsy friend.
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What is resignation? It is putting God between one's self and one's grief.
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To have ideas is to gather flowers to think is to weave them into garlands.
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Attention is a silent and perpetual flattery.
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Kindness causes us to learn, and to forget, many things.
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Those who have suffered much are like those who know many languages they have learned to understand and be understood by all.
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Love sometimes elevates, creates new qualities, suspends the working of evil inclinations but only for a day. Love, then, is an Oriental despot, whose glance lifts a slave from the dust, and then consigns him to it again.
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Loving souls are like paupers. They live on what is given them.
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I love victory, but I love not triumph.
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By becoming unhappy, we sometimes learn how to be less so.
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Death is the justification of all the ways of the Christian, the last end of all his sacrifices, the touch of the Great Master which completes the picture.
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When fresh sorrows have caused us to take some steps in the right way, we may not complain. We have invested in a life annuity, but the income remains.
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Pride dries the tears of anger and vexation humility, those of grief. The one is indignant that we should suffer the other calms us by the reminder that we deserve nothing else.
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Men are always invoking justice yet it is justice which should make them tremble.
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It would seem that by our sorrows only are we called to a knowledge of the Infinite. Are we happy? The limits of life constrain us on all sides.
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Our faults afflict us more than our good deeds console. Pain is ever uppermost in the conscience as in the heart.
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